Her gun, where was her gun? “Dane,” Savich yelled. “I don’t see her gun! She’s dangerous. Everyone, stay put!”
Dane jerked back, but Perky was fast. She twisted up onto her back, gun in hand, to fire up at him. Ollie, coming at her from the other side, shot her in her gun arm. The gun went skittering down the science fiction aisle. She cried out, then fell onto her back and was quiet.
“Okay, okay,” Savich said, “it’s over. Everyone stay back.”
Sherlock was on her knees beside Perky, flattening her hand against the wound in her shoulder. “She’s alive, but we’ve got to get the bleeding under control. Give me your tie. Let’s knot it tight over the wound. Come on, Perky, don’t you dare die on me!”
Dane said, his words coming fast, tripping over themselves, “Backup is here. Ollie, you take care of that. I’ll call an ambulance. Oh yeah, that was a great shot, thanks for saving my very grateful self.”
Savich said, “Keep calming everyone down, help get them out. The manager, Steve Olson, is a friend, and he’s solid. Help him, but let him handle what he wants to; it’ll help focus him if he’s in charge. Assure him it is indeed over. Sherlock, keep everyone back from this area.”
Sherlock was now wrapping Dane’s tie over the wound in Perky’s arm.
Her black Goth shirt was soaked in blood, so much of it and she was so thin. How much blood could that thin body have in it? All bones, Sherlock thought, she is all bones.
Savich turned to look down at Perky. He realized the girl he’d thought was maybe twenty, twenty-two at most, hadn’t seen twenty in a couple of decades. This was Perky, and she was forty, at least. He came down on his knees and tightened the tie around her wound. Okay, the blood was beginning to slow. He pressed on the wound though it was bleeding only sluggishly. She had a chance.
Where were the EMTs? She would be all right, she had to be. She was the only one who could tell them who hired her to kill Rachael.
When the paramedics arrived two minutes later, the FBI had the customers in pretty good control, but the EMTs still had to weave their way with their equipment through a crowd of people, some of whom were now crying.
Savich tried to keep the area clear, but some people were trying to crowd close, see the blood and gore, because that’s the way some people were. More’s the pity, there was plenty to see. He told the paramedics about her wounds.
An older woman, brisk, calm, her breath smelling of lemons, fastened an oxygen mask on Perky’s nose. Then she studied Perky’s shoulder, removed the tie, and wrapped a pressure bandage around it. “Bad,” she said, “but with what you guys have done, she should make it.” She jumped to her feet. “Okay, guys, let’s get her onto the gurney.” Savich had to smile because all the paramedics on this crew were female. Perky’s black wig fell off when they lifted her.
The paramedics were soon out the front door with Perky strapped down on a gurney, her black skirts hanging down on either side, her black boots hanging free of the white sheet. Steve was directing his clerks to take care of the customers. One young girl, who looked pale and shocky, was wandering around the first floor, pausing to pick up a fallen book and trying to reshelve it.
The customers were walking slowly out of what would become a famous bookstore for the next three months. Savich walked over to Steve Olson, the manager, but he couldn’t shake his hand, his were covered with Perky’s blood. He turned to look around the bookstore. “I’m sorry about this, Steve, didn’t mean for this to happen. You did good, thank you. Sherlock is calling our boss, and he’ll send FBI people down here to handle the media. You need me, here’s my card. Tell the media what happened straight out and keep repeating it. Remember, no one was hurt or killed and we got the bad guy. Hey, that teenage girl she caught as a hostage, take good care of her, she did good.”
Sherlock said, “Please call me, Steve, give me her name and address. We want to thank her, speak to her parents, tell them what a heroine she is.”
“You and Sherlock,” Steve said, shaking his head as he took Sherlock’s card. He pressed his palm over his chest. “Here I am trying to calm everyone down and my heart is suddenly ready to burst right out.” He nodded to them once more, then turned to his assistant manager to order coffee and tea from the café on the second floor. He yelled, “Chocolate decadence cake for everyone!”
Savich said to Sherlock, “Perky’s got to be forty, at least, just like Donley Everett said. Amazing.” He leaned down, picked up her black wig.
“She was costuming,” Sherlock said, “a very good disguise, too, for an assassin. She’s about as hard-boiled as they get. I’ll bet she’s been at this for a very long time. I’ll bet you Jack’s old unit has a file on her. Well, at least she’s out of business now.
“I’ll tell you, Dillon, if the bitch doesn’t make it, I’m going to punch her lights out.” She swallowed, placed her hand on his arm, but she didn’t say anything. Perky had tried to kill him twice. Close, too close.
Savich, oblivious, said, “I’m thinking if she pulls through this, we’ll take her to Quantico. A nice visit with Dr. Hicks could be very helpful if he can get her under hypnosis. I’ll bet my next paycheck she isn’t going to give us the time of day, even if we offer her a deal.”
Sherlock said, “She’ll lawyer up, won’t say a word. I bet hypnosis won’t even be on the table.
“I don’t want to deal with the media, Dillon. Let’s get out of here. I called Mr. Maitland, gave him a quick overview. He isn’t happy—I mean, we did shoot up a Barnes & Noble bookstore—but he’ll deal with things. I told him Perky would be able to tell us who hired her to kill Senator Abbott and to kill Rachael. That cheered him up. Oh yeah, I asked Dane and Ollie to follow the ambulance to the hospital to get Donley Everett checked out. He was probably still moaning in the backseat of Ollie’s car.”
Savich and Sherlock went out the back of the Barnes & Noble, back to K-Martique. They walked up the steep stairs and stepped through the open doorway into Perky’s apartment.
“Dillon, wait a moment.”
He turned, smiled at his wife. He pulled her against him, stroked her hair. She said against his neck, “When we’re through here, we’re going to the gym. Yes, even before we spill out every single detail to Mr. Maitland six times. We’re going to the gym. Get away from all this for a while. I’ve got to do something physical or I’m going to explode. You’d better look out—I just might take you down.”